The Lesson
by Eventide
Summary: According to lore sources, Arthas did not in fact kill and raise Sylvanas on the battlefield during the Scourge Invasion of Quel'thalas. Instead, he kept her alive for some time to properly punish her for her defiance. Content Warning: This work contains descriptions of torture.


He holds the apple below her bowed head, for her to see. It's red and shiny, like he'd spent time polishing it. It smells bright and sweet, and her stomach clenches with want.

"Hungry?" He's amused with himself. She lifts her head to glare into his eyes. He smiles, pleased, mocking. "I hear you're refusing to eat. Trying to starve yourself to death, are you?"

She responds with continued, defiant silence. There's a sound of a blade clearing its sheath, and he brings the knife up to her peripheral view. She doesn't flinch, just arches her throat in a dare she knows he won't take. He just keeps smiling that arrogant smile of his, and drops his eyes to the fruit in his hand.

He slices into it. She can hear the flesh of the apple giving, a crisp, sharp sound, but she won't look down. She won't watch him cut into that apple. It's over quickly anyway. He lifts his eyes to hers again, pressing the smooth skin, of the perfectly biteable wedge, against her lower lip. She doesn't move, barely breathes. The temptation to bite is high, to taste that sweet, tart fruit, feel the juice wet her dry tongue, but she won't. She won't.

Unphased, he brings the offering up to his own mouth, bites into it with absolute deliberance. It's not to show her it's safe. They both know he won't poison her. It's to taunt, to coax out her weakness. The food touches her lips again, this time the wet, juicy flesh rubbing slightly back and forth across them. And though her body wants, very badly, she shoves it down, gives him nothing but angry, hate filled eyes.

"No? Are you sure?"

It's a warning. She knows what the threat is, but she refuses to bend. She will not budge. The glint in his eyes tells her he's pleased by her stubbornness. The second bite goes into his mouth, and he moves away from her.

He places a stool before her, far enough away that she couldn't reach it, even if she was feeling bold enough to try to kick it over. The apple is placed on this. It's her lesson, her reminder. And then he moves behind her out of sight, but not out of mind. No she's aware of him as he moves, hears when he selects the tool he'll use on her, senses when he's moved up close behind her.

He gathers her hair at the nape, with a casual gentleness, and for a moment she's afraid he intends to shear it off. The irrationality of the fear isn't lost on her. What good is her vanity to her now? It's only hair. Yet the worry is real, abrupt, overwhelming. But the whisper of blade through her tresses never comes. He merely lays it over her shoulder. She knows now for sure what's coming.

The first few lashes aren't terrible. They sting, but it's easily endured. It doesn't last long. Eventually, she can feel her skin splitting with the sharp impacts. Blood paints her back red as her flesh is stripped away little by little. Still she holds on, breathes, controls herself. She will give him nothing.

At some point, it stops. Her back is a wet, red, ruin, and she is exhausted. She draws herself back together as his footsteps come close behind her, not quite touching her, but close enough to make the exposed nerves flinch.

"Are you hungry?"

She clenches her hands into fists. They're numb from the chains around her wrists, from being held up above her for so long, from cold. She clenches them tight, wills her nerves to keep feeling. And she denies him.

He chuckles, a low pleased rumble. She hears the sound of a cork being pulled free, and braces. The sting of the healing potion is almost worse than the wounds themselves. It's a rough, abrupt healing. It forces her flesh to mend, washes some of the blood off her back, soaks it into the rags of her leggings.

He starts over.

Time slips away, and they do this cycle enough that she can't remember how many times he's asked her the same question and had received the same answer. The only thing to mark it is the apple, the exposed white within having gone brown long ago.

Eventually, her legs give out. She sags, nothing left in her, and she knows she's lost another fight to him. She feels him come in close again, tucking his chin into the bend of her neck. He settles there, listening to her breathe, ragged, tired, teetering on the edge of passing out.

"Sylvanas," he whispers her name against her ear. He's confident, controlled, and so sure of himself, because he knows he's won again. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes." It hurts coming out of her mouth, worse than any blow. Once again, she's lost ground to him. She hates it. She hates him. She hates herself. She falls into it for a little while, wallows in her hate, wraps it around her heart one more time.

He holds a slice of apple below her bowed head. It rests in his palm, his hand held flat, as if to avoid tempting her with biting into him instead. She knows what she's supposed to do, but she hasn't the strength to endure anymore right now. Sometimes you have to lose ground to gain it. She makes a choice.

She moves her head, and eats out of his hand.


End file.
